


hestia

by anabananamammamia



Series: Variations on a Theme [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Original Characters Galore - Freeform, Passing mentions of Bruce Wayne, Platonic Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:41:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27142601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anabananamammamia/pseuds/anabananamammamia
Summary: obligatory platonic soulmate au with Jason Todd. Makes little sense. Started as a quick, fun drabble for OFC Maud Roulette and rapidly grew a life of its own that got totally out of control.In which Maud discovers she has a soulmate who doesn't want to meet her and is badly out of her depth when she does.
Relationships: Jason Todd & Original Female Character(s)
Series: Variations on a Theme [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1954561
Kudos: 5





	hestia

**Author's Note:**

> This is the most self-indulgent twaddle I've ever written. But I've been craving a fic like this for what feels like ages. So. I wrote it. A weird amalgamation of multiple tropes I've encountered that've piqued my interest. It was supposed to be a quick one shot. But, boy, did it grow legs and sprint.

There's a name.

On your elbow.

Everyone has one somewhere on their body.

They call them soulmates and it's considered customary for you to meet and establish some portion of your life with them.

Some are platonic.

Some are romantic.

But they _define_ you.

Some are business partners.

Others are spouses.

Some are best friends and still others are just pen pals.

Some are artistic collaborators and others are vacation buddies.

_Soulmates have varied relationships._

**But everyone has one.**

People get their names at different times.

Some are born with the names,

others get them just before they die.

Still others get them in middle age, high school, college.

Sometimes the person is someone you already know.

Sometimes it's someone you've never met.

Oftentimes, when it's a stranger, it's customary for soulmates to seek each other out and establish contact.

You got yours when you were twelve. It said Jason Peter Todd. You looked him up and found an article of Bruce Wayne introducing Jason Todd as his newest ward. You didn't know what to think at twelve of the thirteen year old boy who looked sullen and angry in a tuxedo by the elbow of a man so suave and sophisticated that you thought he'd scoff if he saw you.

You lived with your great-aunt in community housing. Your father had died in a gang war when you were five and you didn't know who your mother was. You were about as far from billionaire playboys as a person could get and you were embarrassed of it. You guessed that Jason would find you if he wanted to because you didn't want to be the one to come crawling to him.

A lot of wealthy people had to deal with soulmate scams. It was an ugly business. If only because proving soulmates is a painful, lengthy process. The name on your wrist is an indelible mark that sits in your skin and alters your cellular make up. To prove a soulmate's validity, the equivalent of tattoo removal has to be administered which takes months and many painful procedures. The problem is: the procedure works for removing the name but the real test is if it comes back. And that's what makes the whole cumbersome process a real gamble because, sometimes, it doesn't.

There was one well-recorded incident where the daughter of a prominent tech billionaire had a man by the name of Sampson Weiner come forward, claiming to be her soulmate. The father put Sampson through the process and it was by all accounts torturous (Weiner wrote a tell-all book about it that reached the top of bestseller charts, somehow skirting several NDA's and enduring a very public lawsuit afterwards). After all that, the name on his wrist never returned but, about a year or so later, the daughter woke up one morning to find the man's name on her wrist, after all. The publishing of his book in the face of multiple NDA's is not such a conundrum after all.

So you never approached Jason Todd for fear of what might happen. And Jason Todd never approached you.

You were fourteen when the name disappeared from your elbow and Jason Todd was pronounced dead.

It was the next week when the name returned.  
" _Jason Peter Todd_ ".  
A thready, inconsistent line of near pointillism in how shakily written the name appeared. You didn't know what to think. Was it a joke? Was it some sort of cosmic prank? Were you the aberration in a universe that was unfailingly careless in its soulmate etiquette?

You camped out in one of the computer labs designated for club activities after eighth period, biding your time until yearbook decided they needed some 'candid shots' and fucked off to the strip mall across the street. In the meantime, you pulled up your biology independent study project so if anyone looked over, all they'd see is mould spores and the mitochondria. You were itching at every wasted minute when all you wanted to do was research soulmarks and reincarnation because of course this would be the thing that you approach in your usual, methodical way.

Thirty minutes later, after all of yearbook had declared Travis's new boyfriend 'cute as fuck', having perused every possible social media site known to man in the process, they decide to leave. Robotics had lasted about fifteen minutes into the squealing and fawning before coming to the near unanimous decision to go to shop and work on their builds despite the fact that they didn't have a tournament for another month. Mrs. Cathesby, the guidance counsellor in charge of extracurriculars, made the classroom assignments for clubs and must believe some hokey, old-age adage like 'opposites attract', or something like that, to place the yearbook committee with the robotics team.

You settled into the now-empty space; turning off the lights and pulling two chairs together like a couch so you could drape your legs over the second. The first thing you decided to look into, as you were desperately curious, were soulmarks returning. There was, again, the story of the tech billionaire's daughter. Sampson Weiner remained without a soulmate, however. You're sure that if he had a new name, he would've shared it, considering how high profile and well-received his story was. Any further information ranged from folktale and myth to romantic movie plot synopsis and urban legends. Nothing of any repute.

After reaching a dead-end in that avenue, you decided to look into your soulmate a little more. Because you were always a glutton for punishment.

There are a spate of news articles that range from the official to the lascivious and that's not even delving into the message boards and blogs that exist. They go from ones interested in Wayne Enterprises to the crazy conspiracy nuts who have outlandish theories about everything.

You feel more than slightly overwhelmed and decide to start with the official. The Gotham Gazette has a subdued and respectful article about the death of Bruce Wayne's adopted son. Jason Peter Todd, born August 16th and tragically passed before his time on April 27th. 'He will be commemorated in a closed funeral with the family at the Wayne estate.'

You pause to look at the grainy photo of a man deep in mourning and cannot help but clutch your elbow at the expression on his face. You wonder, briefly, fleetingly, if you should contact him about your soulmark. Surely, the father, adoptive or not, and especially one as shattered as this, would want to know. You wonder how you would go about it.

And pop over to the Wayne Enterprises fansites. And immediately regret the decision. The blog posts are...skirting the edge of impropriety. Exhibiting a near sadistic sort of voyeuristic schadenfreude in the way they dissect paparazzi pictures of Bruce Wayne looking truly devastated in every position they capture him in.

You turn to the more subdued of the conspiracy hubs with the air of one attending a jury selection; as an involuntary civic duty, distasteful but necessary. The more pedestrian by reputation, illiterati.com, has a general overview of the more pertinent facts and then dives into a predictably outlandish but surprisingly grounded theory of mafia extortion and illegitimate heirs. You browse your other options, following a chainlink research fence of source to source until you feel like your eyes are going to fall out of your head. Regardless, you are no closer to an answer of why his name has miraculously reappeared on your wrist.

You go back to the more litigiously outrageous gossip sites that host theories about celebrities, built entirely on lies and other similarly dubious hypotheses. "Bruce Wayne Love Child Assassinated By Gold Digger Girlfriend?" is splayed across the top of the article in bold letters that squeeze every bit of sensationalism it can with every word. You're staring at it dispassionately, chin in hand as you psych yourself up to actually read it when the door to the computer lab bangs open. Mr. 'call me Martin' Skezhnezsky breezes in, a pile of essays under his arm. He notices you seated at a computer and squints at your screen.

"You shouldn't read that crap." He says, with such condescending disgust and derisive contempt that you feel dirty just by association; as filthy as if you had been caught on a site with a minimum age requirement.

"I'm only on the crap because there's no actual information in any of the real articles."

Mr. S looks at you and says, rather carefully for him, as he sets down his pile of papers, "What do you mean?"

"Have you read any of them?" You ask him, stridently ramping up to your point and completely forgoing whatever sort of response he might've made as you plough ahead, fuelled by all the frustrating dead ends you'd run up against in your research. "One of the wealthiest men in America, and certainly the wealthiest in Gotham, ranking top three of the tristate area, decides to adopt an orphan from Crime Alley in the prime of his bachelorhood. The kid appears out of nowhere and seemingly disappears under equally as suspicious circumstances. I mean, it's tragic for sure, they deserve respect and everything, but seriously-- _no one_? is calling him out for how he died? It's weird!"

Mr. S doesn't say anything for a good half minute, biting his lip as he stares at the essays he'd set on the table. He walks over to your computer quietly, puts a hand on the back of your chair and asks, "What have you looked through?"

You feel a rush of warm vindication in your chest. You've hooked him. Mr. S is intrigued which means he thinks there's a story here, which means you're right. Obviously, you know irrefutably that you're right. The glaringly resurfaced soulmark on your elbow is proof positive of your fabricated theory, but Mr. S doesn't know that. He thinks that you genuinely have a case based on the cobbled together half-facts you've patched up during an irritated rant born from what you've hinted to be compromised journalistic integrity has lured him in. You're absurdly proud of your prevaricating as you take Mr. S through your search history.

He looks patiently through the traditional outlets and then leans closer as you take him through your improvised sleuthing.

***

"Remember," Mr. S says as he signs the permission slip, "if in doubt, just aim and click."  
"Colin Creevey that shit," you mutter to yourself as you fiddle with the camera hanging from your neck.

Mr. S gives you a startled look as the head of the robotics team, Dale, ambles up to the desk.  
"Come on, Maud." Dale says, taking the slip from Mr. S, "I'll give ten points to Gryffindor if you can figure out where the focus feature is."  
"I'll give ten points up your butt if you can figure out how to not be an ass." You say to his back as you trail behind him.

"Dale!" Someone calls out from the huddle around the robot and he rushes over to the group. Their build, affectionately dubbed the Jaeger, is like something out of the head of a toddler. One with a short attention span who'd seen a couple of science fiction movies and decided that only the most visually badass elements of each were of any interest. It sounded like a garbage disposal when they switched the thing on and it moved like a rusted bicycle with a broken chain and two flat tires. How they'd made it to the finals of Robotronics was a mystery to you.

You hadn't heard of the tournament until Mr. S approached you with a proposal. Attend Robotronics as the photographer for yearbook committee and get the opportunity to visit Wayne Enterprises head offices. Mr. S doesn't have to deal with the politics of yearbook and you get a chance to get as close to Wayne as you can. Provided you do one thing. Well, a series of things that all really amount to one.

***

Wayne Tech Head offices, a division of Wayne Enterprises Inc, is a feat of modern architecture. It's all glass and steel and concrete. None of that old fashioned, art nouveau, brick and mortar that makes up the Old Gotham financial district where the building resides. Ironically, brushing up against Crime Alley on its western border and about a forty five minute bus ride away from where you live.

The school bus drops everyone off at the front steps of the imposing sky scraper. It's floors extend so high up that to see its top from the foot of the staircase you have to crane your head so far back it gives you both a crick in the neck and vertigo. You snap a few shots as the rest of the team piles out of the bus.  
Dale and Raul, meanwhile, are carefully maneuvering the Jaeger towards the building as though it's a custom-made cake with multiple precarious tiers.

"Isn't that thing gonna be in a fight to the death in, like, fifteen minutes?" You ask as you trail behind them, camera out, finger on the trigger.  
"Shut up, Maud." Dale grunts as he stumbles and you snigger, pushing the button and snapping the moment up.  
"Yeah, shut up, Maud," Raul echoes as he staggers to offset Dale's brief, faltering steps.  
"Shut up, Maud." You mimic in a high-pitched voice that neither of them acknowledge. You sidle past them to press the button that activates the automatic doors, snapping another pic as they walk towards you with the Jaeger suspended between them.

Just as you're backing into the building, snapping pics as you go, someone bumps into your shoulder. You pitch forward and collide with the doorjamb. Your elbow takes the brunt of the damage when you remember to protect the camera at the very last second.  
"Hey! Watch it, jackass!" You yell at the retreating back of a man who's touting a cardboard box. He doesn't even turn round to acknowledge you, head bowed. All you can see is the nape of his neck, decorated with a constellation of freckles, as he runs away. You're rubbing your elbow, frown plastered so deep you don't even notice until a voice above you asks, "You alright?" You look up to find a security guard, badge prominently displayed on his lapel looking down at you.

"Yeah." Falls out of your mouth before you can even think about it.  
"You fell pretty hard." He says quietly, brows coming down in a frown as his eyes narrow in on the grip you still have on your elbow. "Come on, I'll get you some ice. Just...uh, just leave your bag here."

He gestures towards reception as he puts his hand on your shoulder and steers you into the building, flashing his badge through multiple doors that beep open with impunity. You make small talk as you go and he's inordinately kind as he leads you through the building. The further in you get, the more looks the pair of you garner but the less acknowledgement you receive. He takes you through floors of open-plan cubicles and glass-lined offices. The people are well-dressed and exude the same self-contained, laser-focused energy of the man who'd collided with you at the entrance. Paul is notably different as he chats you through the office.

"Photography, huh?"  
"Yeah..."  
"My nephew's super into it. Got the whole dark room and everything. You shoot with film or digital?"  
"Uhhh...digital?"  
"That's cool. Easier to edit. I get it."  
"Yeah."  
"Hey, Mo! You know if we've got any ice packs in the freezer?"

Mo is a rail-thin, brown man with a frayed, green sweater vest and dark, curly hair. He's hunched over the sleek white table of the kitchenette Paul's led you into, phone in hand, tapping away. He looks up at Paul's question and back down at the lunch in front of him, like it's someone else's problem before looking back up.

"You could check the freezer." His response is just that edge of ornery that makes you realize Mo's a dick.  
You smile at him and say, "Great idea," as Paul mutters something that sounds suspiciously like ' _motherfucker_ ' under his breath. You have to muffle a snort at that reaction and step out of the way as Paul stalks off to the fridge.

He's rummaging through the freezer while you sidle up to the aforementioned Mo and lean unobtrusively over his shoulder under the pretense of waiting. Not unobtrusively enough, it seems, because Mo hunches his shoulders up and brings his phone down to his lap. Mo sighs a harsh, sharp, exhale of irritation and says, "You ok?" with such disregard that it's clear he barely cares.

"Yeah, kinda."  
"What happened?" Mo asks the question like it's being drawn and quartered out of him.  
"Some guy bumped into me."  
Paul walks up with a blue ice pack, the type that goes in lunch bags and hands it to you, telling Mo, "I was escorting Eddie out."  
At this Mo perks up like a dry plant placed in the shower. "Nygma already left?"  
"Yeah," Paul rubs the back of his head.  
"Thought he had 'til the end of the day," Mo comments, packing up his lunch.  
"There was an incident,"Paul starts, his eyes darting around the room before landing on you, holding the ice pack against your elbow.  
"What happened?" Mo asks, leaning forward eagerly.  
"Nothing too serious." Paul says, tone off-hand but he gives Mo a meaningful look and Mo sits right up, slipping his phone into his pocket.  
Paul's got a hand on your shoulder, already steering you back towards the exit when he puts a hand up to his ear and barks, "Copy that. On my way."  
He looks down at you and says apologetically, "I gotta run, but Mo can take you back to the atrium. Isn't that right, Mo?"  
Mo frowns, mouth open to protest, but Paul's already speed-walking out of the room. Mo looks distinctly uncomfortable as he silently puts away his lunch. You break it with the question, "Who's Eddie?"  
Mo freezes before reluctantly saying, "He used to work here."  
He walks out of the room just as fast as Paul, calling out, "Come on, I'll take you back to the atrium."  
You follow Mo, asking, "What did he do?"  
Mo glances behind him, at you, before saying, begrudgingly, "He was a software developer."  
"What does that mean?" You ask, almost running to catch up to him as he continues to move at a speed more common in people late for their trains.  
Mo lets out a sighing groan like he's stuck in traffic and mumbles sarcastically, "It means he developed software."  
"What kind of software did he develop?"  
"You run a blog or something?" Mo asks, giving you the side-eye as you catch up to him.

Mo had led you through the cubicle maze during this exchange and you've both just reached the hallway when a woman with a harsh bun that looks like it's pulling her eyebrows runs up to Mo. She immediately launches into a tirade that is so full of jargon that you understand only the pejoratives of what she's ranting. Something about a project and a deadline and no one to do it. Mo's lips flatten as she talks and he swears prolifically when she finishes. The woman only nods emphatically in commiseration, looking perversely satisfied with his reaction.

Mo takes off down the hallway with the woman by his side, the pair of them deep in conversation, their eyes glued to the iPad in the woman's hands. You follow them, awkwardly jogging to keep up.

Mo's gesticulating wildly as the woman pokes aggressively at the screen all while you follow them towards the elevator at the end of the hall. Mo stabs the call button and the door immediately opens with a sleek woosh of air and metal. You step in after them and only then do they notice your existence.

"Who's this?" the woman asks Mo.  
"Some kid from the exhibition." Mo says before taking the iPad from her hands.  
"Uhhh..." the lady seems uncharacteristically lost for words as she looks down at you.  
"Mo's supposed to take me back." You tell her, helpfully.  
The woman looks gobsmacked, "What?" she bleats, turning accusingly back to Mo.  
"Paul showed up with her when I was in the kitchen." Mo says, without looking up from the iPad.  
"So you're Paul's kid?" You can see her reevaluating you but the question leaves your mouth hanging open like a goldfish.

Mo snorts contemptuously at the assumption and says, "Paul doesn't have kids, Jane." It's Jane's turn to look flummoxed and she does so with aplomb. "Well, whatever. It doesn't matter because we don't have time to take her to the event."  
"We're not supposed to leave guests unattended." Mo nearly sing-songs, with a sardonic twist of his lips, eyes still glued to the iPad.  
Jane has crossed her arms and is glaring at Mo with narrowed eyes. "If you're suggesting what I think you're suggesting you can fuck right off."  
"Between the two of us, who can write a usable code in under an hour?" Mo flips back almost lazily, without even looking up.  
Jane starts tapping her foot irritably, faster and faster until she finally snaps, "Fine." In the tersest tone you've ever heard, before looking down at you again and smiling. It's a tight, angry, truly frightening smile that makes you shrink away from her as much as the cramped space will allow. You clutch the ice pack just a little tighter as it melts against your cardigan, unnerved by her expression. If you hadn't listened to the conversation preceding it, that smile would have you fooled.

The elevator comes to a halt, the doors swishing open and Mo beelines out without a parting word, let alone glance. Jane mutters under her breath as she leans across you to press the appropriate floor. Instead, she presses the hold door button and turns to you, tone frank and expression hard, "Listen kid-- what's your name?"

"...Maud..."

"Maud. Honey. I can't afford to waste--take. _Take_ the time to escort you downstairs. We're having a bit of a... _situation_...today. So. You're a big girl. You can take yourself downstairs, right?"

That tone leaves no room for any other answer but, "Sure."

"Great." Jane beams, flashing you a small smile that's somehow both smug and dismissive. She's scurrying off the elevator before you can even open your mouth to say anything more. She clearly could not wait to be rid of you.

Instead of pressing the lobby button, you catch the closing door and slip out, hand on your camera and the other still stupidly holding the ice pack to your elbow, fingers numb. You feel the nerves settle in the pit of your stomach at disobeying Jane's instructions, minimal though they were. You could get into trouble. If you get caught. And in a building like Wayne Enterprises, you were bound to, considering their reputation. But Mr. S had left you with a task.

Stepping into the cubicle maze without anyone else leaves you feeling self-conscious as heads and eyes flit in your direction and away. You scan the room, taking your time as you amble towards the kitchen. This place is noticeably emptier than upstairs and the general activity is visibly diminishing as you survey the room. The few heads that flitted in your direction are the only ones left and they don't approach you after that first perusal.

You meander past a cubicle and duck inside. It's a standard set up of desk, chair, and assorted hardware. There's papers pinned all around the dividing walls and you bring up the camera to take a picture, focus be damned, you need to do this quickly. The drive is tucked under the desk and up against the divider. The light's glowing green so you move the mouse to see a lock screen light up the monitor. Your nostrils flare with displeasure and then you kneel down, fiddling with the camera.

Mr. S had loaned you this camera with careful instructions about the secret compartment he'd created in the lens cap. You fiddle with it, hands shaking slightly as you slot a nail under the hidden edge and pull hard enough that it hurts and you think yourself liable to lose your nail before uncapping the hidden compartment. The false top pops off after far too long and inside is the smallest USB key you've ever seen. You tip the thing into your palm and frantically try to plug it into the port. Of course it doesn't go in the first three times you try, flipping it over each time to no success. After what feels like minutes but is most probably seconds, you push it in through panic-induced frustration and freeze when a chime resonates from the speakers.

When no one comes to investigate, you relax by increments and slowly bring up the camera to snap more pictures of the papers displayed in the work station. Some are clearly personal: concerts and take-out menus and the odd photo of a dog in different costumes. Others are just as clearly company material: newsletters and announcements peppered between legends of departmental directories and codes. You photograph them all as quickly as you can, too afraid to rummage through drawers for fear of leaving evidence of your tampering.

All that's left is the program, and if Mr. S is to be believed, it's the hardest part. " _Patience_ ," Mr. S had said. The program needs to load and it takes time to do that. Time that you don't think you have. You don't know where everyone's gone or, more importantly, why and therefore have no clue as to when they will be coming back.

You start counting in your head to make sure that you're not overestimating the seconds that feel like they're speeding by. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four....on and on until you hit sixty and then you start again. You feel uncomfortably hot, sweat beading on your forehead, your face flushed and your palms slick as you continue counting in your head. Every sound in the cavernous space feels louder than it is. You can hear distant conversations, picking up the odd word that sheds no light on the topic. You've counted to sixty three times over. Surely, that must be enough. " _Give it a few minutes_ ," Mr. S had said and three qualifies as a few.

You glance at the screen and your mouth falls open at the image plastered there. The screen looks shattered, like someone has taken a blunt, heavy object and bludgeoned it repeatedly. The cracks spread from several points of impact are built of rainbow coloured code that you don't understand in the slightest. You scramble to remove the USB, sticking it in your bra with shaking fingers. As you bend down to snatch up the ice packet that you'd dropped on the floor in your haste to get the USB out, you can see the screen slowly revert to the original screensaver that had been there when you first shook the mouse.

You stand up and sidle out of the cubicle, eyes wide and watchful for any person that might stop you. No one does. It's bizarre how insular and self-contained everyone is in this office. You walk back to the elevator with your heart in your throat, certain that someone will come running out of the room, shouting accusations at you. But no one does. You make it safely down to the lobby, unmolested, and stride to the reception desk.

Paul is leaning against it, chatting amiably to the lady behind the counter and doesn't notice you until you come up to stand right beside him. He looks down at you and you can see exactly when he realizes it's you.

" _Maud_?!" He exclaims, expression one of complete surprise.  
"Hi, Paul."  
"What are you doing here?"  
"I'm trying to get to the tournament."  
"Mo abandoned you, didn't he?" Paul sighs, aggrieved and the receptionist he'd been talking to pipes in, " _Mo_?! Mo-from-I.T., _Mo_?" Paul looks over at her and grimaces in the affirmative. She shakes her head, tone skeptically judgmental as she says, "You left a kid with Mo?"

"Yeah, well. There's a lot going on today." Paul grumbles, shrugging self-consciously.  
"Mo said that he had a 'situation' to deal with so I could go down the elevator by myself." You inform them, hoping they'll elaborate on the 'situation'.

They don't. They do exchange looks that you can't decipher and Paul sighs. "Come on, Maud. I'll take you to the tournament." He says, a hand on your shoulder.

***

The Jaeger loses the tournament, though it wins first place for design and build. You take a picture of the Robotics team gathered around the Jaeger before its fight to the death. Everyone looks nervous and hopeful. The picture afterwards, with a defeated machine and an ostentatious ribbon, is filled with grim faces and slumped postures.

"Cheer up." You tell Dale as you take close ups of the damage in all its glory, "It's not technically alive, so it's not actually dead."  
"Shut up, Maud." Dale snaps at you, exhausted and monotone as he packs up the equipment.

The walk back to the school bus out front, with the Jaeger held aloft between Dale and Raul, has all the levity of a funeral procession. You run ahead to take pictures as the team leaves the building and they all give you fingers as they pass by. You think yearbook will appreciate the symmetry of an opening shot and an exit wound.

Robotics does not. As soon as they're all packed up, Dale complains loudly that he forgot his cell phone in the building.

"You're cozy with that security dude."  
"So what?"  
" _So_ , he'll give you the phone and we won't have to wait fifteen minutes for bag checks."  
"And that means _I_ have to go _because_...?"  
"Oh my _god_ , Maud! Just go and get it so we can _leave_!" Dale finally yells.  
" _Fine_!" You yell back and stomp off to the tower.

After a placatory exchange with the receptionist who tells you definitively that 'no, there is no phone found left behind' and, ironically, 'yes, we would know, we're very good with security'. You step back out to find the school bus gone.

***

You resentfully plan to hop the 65 bus which is notoriously terrible. There's only two buses that do the route at any one time and only one driver who's lasted longer than five months. Mike is a burly, enormous man with a scar down his forearm and tattoos peeking out of his shirt. He knows his regulars, has a keen eye for hooligans and the kind of presence that doesn't brook any argument. His word is law on the bus.

Even though GCTC buses are supposed to run until 10pm, the 65 cuts service at 9, since its route goes through the Narrows and is by default, dangerously near Crime Alley. It has two stops in the Narrows or is, at least, supposed to. Mike will make the executive decision on whether or not the bus actually makes them on the night depending on the atmosphere.

Your trek towards the nearest stop on the route is long and wears you out quicker than you'd like to admit. The buildings get smaller and dingier, the people grungier, and the air smokier. You're seething on the inside about having to walk at all, so lost in your righteous fury that you pay little attention to your surroundings. Which is a perilous mistake.

Later, when anyone asks about how you met, you'll romanticize the hell out of it and paint it as this life changing, unforgettable experience. And in truth, it is. But not for any of the rosy reasons you wax poetic about later on.

The only reason you notice anything amiss is when you stop to get your bearings at North 73rd and Queen East. You've strayed too close to Crime Alley. You'd been so engrossed in your inner ranting, that you've lost track of your surroundings. As you turn around to look at the street signs of the intersection you'd just crossed, you see a man step back onto the same curb you'd just stepped off, eyes wide and expression shocked. He's staring directly at you with an intent you can feel is less than beneficent. You can just about make out a distinctive black skull patch among many on his leather jacket and your stomach drops. Gangs are a fact of life in Gotham and just about everyone who's grown up here knows their insignias. (1) Your heart starts racing like you're sprinting a hundred meters, the pulse rushing into your ears until you can't hear anything else but a faint ringing as you turn and run.

Your backpack pounds against your spine and your feet slap the pavement with such force that every step jolts painfully through your ankles and shudders up your tibia. You run until you can't breathe, your chest a slicing ache of gasping inhale, and a stitch lancing your side. You don't hear anything but the ringing in your ears, almost blocking all sound. You look frantically behind you as you pant and spot him, jogging a block behind and getting worryingly closer, depressingly quickly. You take off at a mincing pace, too knackered to try going faster than a fast walk and come to the brilliant idea of outmanoeuvring him through camouflage rather than evasion. If you can't outrun 'em, outsmart 'em.

You slip into the very next alleyway you see, making a beeline for the dumpster and recycling bins lined up along the far side. You slot yourself in the small space between the green bin and the dumpster, hoping to slide into the gap between the wall and the container. All you have to do is shift the bundle of clothing someone had rightfully chosen to discard, judging by the tattered state of the rags. It looks like a suit jacket some businessman once owned and put through the paper shredder after having an accident with the ink cartridge of a printer. You reach out, adrenaline leaving you jittery, to move it aside. The second you make contact, you're in a world of pain.

You've tightly scrunched into a ball, arms over your head to protect you, before it registers that the onslaught has ceased. You lower your arms at a glacial pace, eyes narrowed to slits as you slowly take in the world around you. The ringing in your ears has dulled significantly and now all you can focus on is your harsh breaths and the throbbing ache of every hit. The mangy pile of rags has a rat atop of it and a face in between. A face that looks like that belonging to a cadaver. The kind of textbook television cadaver you're sure you've seen on screen before. You would be screaming if you weren't gasping for air and shaking so severely that you think you might be going into shock. Everything hurts, from your fingers to your feet.

As you move, the rags move with you and you bleat, "I'm just gonna go, I swear!" You raise your hands up in a sign of surrender. They're visibly shaking. The sleeves of your shirt have been pulled so aggressively that they sag down to your biceps. Your wrist is red and your forearms will almost certainly be bruised by tomorrow.

Peeking at the inhabitant of the rags through your arms, you can see he's strangely focused on them. As your breathing evens out, you notice he's mostly staring at one arm and it takes you a moment to realize why. There's just something about his face that tickles the back of your mind like an itch in your throat that no amount of clearing can erase. You push the niggle aside to focus on the immediate danger. He's staring at your soulmark. In this position, it is prominently on display and the boy in front of you is close enough to read it.

You scrutinize him, tracing his features with your eyes for a sign of recognition and cannot come to a decision either way on whether he's managed to decipher the name. You're too scared to move, one way or the other; another beating here or a mugging--or worse--out there. Looking at the face that owns the rags, it's like watching the old rusted inner workings of a clock tower crank to life. You can see a thought's inception and subsequent processing as it grinds through gears so jammed you're afraid it'll be shredded before it's properly digested.

It's the name. It has to be. It's the only possible thing that he could be looking at. His mouth opens and you think he's going to ask--

"B?"  
" _What_!?"  
"B?"  
" _No_!!"

You contort your arm so you can look at your elbow, alarmed at the thought that your soulmark might've changed. Though it's bruised a livid purple from your earlier collision, it's still the same, unsteady black print, discernible as, " _Jason Peter Todd_ ".

"Jason Peter Todd." You say to yourself, part in reassurance and part in confusion as to where the hell this idiot had gotten the letter B from. You eye him with befuddlement and contempt, "That's a J, not a B," you tell him indignantly, your earlier fear of his reaction subsumed by the egregiousness of his reading comprehension.  
"B," he repeats, like a broken record and you can't help yourself from correcting him, " _No_!!! _Not_ B! J! _J!!_ "  
He grunts and you snap your mouth closed, teeth clacking, surprised at the reaction. That surprise doesn't last long when you see the man with the black skull patch on his leather jacket who'd been following you earlier, at the entrance of the alleyway. He's breathing heavy, hair a mess and nostrils flared.  
"Shit." You get up, preparing for a confrontation. The boy in rags gets up with you. Skull patch advances and you move away in tandem with his steps. You don't have a hope in hell of evading the thug now that he's caught up with you, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't at least try. You keep backing away.

"Give me the bag!" Skull patch yells. Mr. S's camera and USB are in the bag. If you give that up, you're toast.  
"Give me the bag and I'll let you walk away! You and the bum!" Skull patch shouts. That's a troubling development. Still, you can't lose the bag.  
"Suck my balls!" You yell back, your pulse racing, clutching the straps of your backpack in a death grip.

Skull patch advances, cracking his knuckles with a grin plastered on his face that doesn't look happy so much as expectant.  
"Oh, I am gonna _love_ this." He says, voice low and carrying so much relish you get goosebumps.  
You take off, unable to stand there and do nothing. And are caught within seconds by the straps of your backpack which dig painfully into your shoulders as you're hauled back.

You scream like a banshee as you're dragged around like a chew toy. You won't let go of the bag and he won't let go of you. He grabs your hair and you groan in pain but still won't relinquish your hold on the bag. Suddenly, the pain and weight is gone. You're frozen for all of two seconds before sprinting as fast as you've ever gone down the alleyway.

Hope flairs in your chest as you get closer to the other side without getting caught. When you realize that the other side is the road where the 65 bus stop that you'd been aiming for all along resides, you take the chance to look back. What you see explains why you managed to get away; rag boy is fighting skull patch, who clearly has the upper hand. You feel guilt and responsibility curl in your gut as your conscience asserts that the only reason the boy is in that position at all is because you decided to run into his alleyway.

You turn around, like a pirate to the gallows or a puppet on a string and go back, dropping your bag by the exit at the other end of the alley. The fight is turning progressively ugly. Rag boy is mainly defensive, throwing elbows and kicks that have skull patch grunting and swearing breathlessly. Skull patch is choking him out with the occasional punch, all of which land with fleshy thumps that result in unintelligible squawks of pain.

You owe rag boy this. So you shove a recycling bin stuffed to the brim out from its place in the line against the wall; putting all of your weight into pulling it so that the wheels take the brunt of the weight and it's movable. You steel yourself, balancing the bin precariously as you try to get a view of the brawling pair. You have to hit skull patch, not rags and it takes way too long until the two wrestle each other into such a position. Your arms are aching so much from the strain that they're shaking and the bin wobbles dangerously. You heave at the thing and charge at the pair like a bull at a matador, full-speed ahead. The collision is prolific. You feel the hit jarring through your hands and arms and up your spine. You're yelling. Skull patch's yelling. Everyone's yelling. Until there's silence.

You step around from the recycling bin to see skull patch on the ground, rag and bone boy beside him. You grab rag boy by the hand, pulling him up, grunting with the effort. You plead with him as you urge him up and on, "Come on!" He moves at what feels to you like a glacial pace, the seconds stretching like taffy into minutes. You tug him along behind you just as skull patch begins to twitch on the ground.

The pace is a lumbering one with rag boy's weight pulling at the socket of the shoulder whose hand is holding his as you pull him along. "Come _on_!" You plead, breathless as you put even more force into your hold and really lean against him so he'll move faster. You're at a light jog now that gets the both of you to the end of the alley. You veer to the side, jolting your arm in its socket as you pull him with you to pick up the discarded bag. It's like walking a particularly headstrong, large dog. But you owe him your life.

You continue to pull him along, scared that skull patch is already up and after you. You push yourself to move faster as you sling the bag over your other shoulder, dragging Rags along. You risk a look behind you. Rag boy is stumbling along, breath ragged and shaggy hair hanging in his eyes. His other arm hangs limply by his side like the strips of ragged fabric that remain of his sleeves. Skull patch is up and lumbering after you already, albeit unsteadily, one hand affixed to his temple and the other tucked against his side.

"Come _on_!" You shout at Rags, " _Faster_!" It's life or death at this point and you get a flash of kill or be killed inspiration, remembering his reaction to your soulmark.  
"B!" You screech, "Come on! _B_!" Hoping against hope that he'll get the picture and book it but there's no appreciable increase in pace. You look back at him in exasperation, the conversation still fresh in your mind, and mimic it's previously traversed path, shouting desperately " _J!_ Faster!"  
His expression doesn't change, his other arm remains limp, but somehow, miraculously, he speeds up.  
"Yes!" you hiss, elated at the improved pace and start chanting, eager to repeat what appears to have worked, "Faster J, come on, _faster_!" Until rag boy and you are both running, pell-mell towards the bus stop. You're going so fast, breathing so hard, focus so narrowed that all you catch are cars flashing past your peripheral. Your awareness is zeroed in on the bag thumping against your shoulder blades, knocking against your rib cage with the breath stabbing into your lungs and the bony fingers held tight in your grip. Your vision is filled solely with the white stop marker indicating stop 11 on the 65 route.

You skid to a halt in front of it, shoulder jarring when "J" continues to run so you gasp out, " _Stop_! Stopstop _stop_! J! _Stop_!"

You look about frantically, at a loss for what to do now that you've reached your destination. There is no protection from skull patch should he reach you. When he reaches you. Your mind falls blank at the inevitability. Craning your neck, you can just about see him navigating through the pedestrians that you had ploughed through, uneven gait the telltale sign of your earlier encounter. You consider, wildly, for the briefest moment, of running all the way home and abandon it almost faster than it materializes in your brain. It won't work. You're already panting like a racehorse that's run the Derby and it's been less than a minute. You won't last. Skull patch will overtake you, eventually and you can't let him follow you all the way home.

The second it takes you to search out and spot skull patch is the same second that you see your salvation. Fate must be paying attention today, for whatever reason, because right at the end of the block, just past skull patch is the shining beacon of the 65 bus, headsign displaying stop 11 in blaring yellow-block script.

Your eyes dart over to the sidewalk. Skull patch is getting ever closer. You meet his gaze and feel the overwhelming urge to step back; to get as far away from him as you can. He's as laser focused on you as you were on the bus stop marker. His eyes are narrowed and his posture is so intent that if he has a weapon, you're sure he's ready to deal a lethal blow. Your gaze slides back to the bus and your whole body clenches, like its been completely submerged in a frozen lake, when you see the bus stop at a stop sign and a little old lady begin to cross with her walker. From the other side of the street. The possibility of Skull patch reaching you before the 65 skyrockets exponentially into a near reality.

"Fuck." The bus is not moving. Skull patch is.  
"Fuck, fuck, _fuck_." You mutter under your breath.  
All you can hear is the rushing of your blood in your veins as your pulse pounds in your ears, all the way up from your chest, your heart in your throat, when you step on the street and walk headlong into oncoming traffic. The first car passes so close that you can feel the breeze on your face like a knife edge narrowly avoiding your fingers when you chop vegetables in a rush. You keep going and the next two cars swerve out of your way, horns blaring so loud you can't think. All rational, logical thought is subsumed under the sound that's hurtling into your brain and numbing your senses.

It's like you're in a dream. You've reached such a fever pitch of hyper-vigilance and adrenaline-fuelled panic that you've somehow severed all thought and emotion. You walk down the street as though taking a light stroll, aware of the air on your face but barely feeling the steps as you make them.

Reality descends slowly when you reach the bus. Mike must've seen you coming since the door is already open. You step on and stumble over the first step when something holds you back. Looking down, it's only then that you notice you haven't let go of rag boy's hand. He follows you, stepping onto the bus thereby crowding you into the step so closely that you're forced to continue up the stairs. Just in time, too, as Mike shuts the door behind you both just as skull patch slams into it.

Mike starts the bus moving then, so suddenly and abruptly that you have to grab the railing to offset the acceleration when Mike floors the gas pedal. There's swearing from further inside the bus at this manoeuvre and one particularly affected passenger belligerently shouts, "Hey Mikey! What gives?!"

Mike makes no response but darts a glance at you, grunting, "You payin' or what?"  
This jolts you out of your stupor and you awkwardly shift your bag around to find your metro card, fingers of one hand stiff from having held onto rag boy's so tightly for so long. You pull out your GCTC student pass and swipe it. It beeps accordingly. Mike darts another pointed look, before quickly nodding at the boy by your side.  
"He's gotta pay, too." Mike tells you, eyes on the road. "You know I don't give free rides, Maud."  
You make to swipe your pass again and Mike loudly interjects as the bus speeds past the 11th stop without stopping, "Nuh uh! It don't work like that!"  
You sigh and root around your bag for some change.  
"If he can't pay, he can't stay." Mike reminds you as you hunt through pockets and feel around the bottom of the bag for any loose change. It's his favourite phrase. 'No fare, don't care. Don't pay, can't stay.'

You finally wrangle together enough for a student fare and drop it into the receptacle with more force than is strictly necessary, the coins dropping with metallic clangs like bullet shells on a concrete floor. "I'm paying, so he's staying." You tell Mike and move down the aisle towards your favourite spot at the back.

"Hey! He can't stay up here!" Mike calls out when you're halfway down the aisle. You turn back to see the boy standing where you'd left him, right beside Mike at the front of the bus. You make your way back and grab the boy's hand, dragging him with you, saying, "He's not. I'll find him a seat."

"Your funeral," Mike mumbles and the pieces slot into place. The rags, the face, the _soulmark_. _**J**_ \--the way he looks like someone you've seen before. Because you have. In pictures and video, press photos and gala podiums.

"Hey, we movin' here, or what?" A disgruntled passenger asks and you take the hint.  
"Sorry," You apologize as you pull 'J'-- _Jason_ behind you, towards the back of the bus. You settle him in your favourite spot by the window and sit down beside him, bag in your lap.

" _Jason_!?" You ask without preamble, in despairing, ecstatic, agonized, shock. He makes no move so you take his hand.  
"B?" He responds, hopeful and forlorn and you can't help the irritation that leeches out as you snap, " _No_! Not B--It's--Jason?..." and suddenly another piece of the puzzle falls into place as you realize who exactly _B_ **_is_**. Bruce Thomas Wayne. Former-- or technically, current-- guardian of one Jason Peter Todd. Your tone softens in comprehension when you answer him, "No, I'm not B."

Another thought hits you then and you lean closer to ask, "Does 'B' know you're alive?"  
"B?" Jason asks again.  
"Yes, B--"  
You stop yourself and look around the bus. There's only four other people on it. The old woman who had crossed at the stop sign earlier is sitting right behind Mike's partition. A middle-aged woman with a nurse's uniform peeking out of her sweater is reading a popular romance novel across from her. Two seats down is a young man in a hoodie with headphones on, engrossed in his phone, his backpack at his feet. Across the aisle from him and closest to you, is a man with long greying hair, sunglasses and a windbreaker with a Woodstock logo on the back. He's ruffling through a portable shopping cart stacked with overstuffed plastic bags, a bundle of newspapers on the seat beside him. He was the one yelling and swearing earlier.

You lean even closer in and whisper in Jason's ear, "Bruce Wayne." You have to lean back immediately when you get a whiff of the most pungent odour you've ever smelt. Sour sweat, sweet rot, stale musk, astringent ammonia and bad breath are enough to have you holding yours. There's no way Bruce Wayne would know his ward is alive if he's in such a state that it's clear he's been living on the street for some time. That answers that.

"B," Jason says in response, looking straight ahead.

And yet... He's followed you all the way onto the bus, through traffic, himself at risk of great injury or even death. Placed _himself_ in harm's way to rescue _you_. His name is on your elbow. He _must_ know who you are. On _some_ level.

You squeeze his hand, then shake it slightly when he gives no reaction. "Jason?" He doesn't so much as twitch.  
"J?" You ask tentatively and his eyes slide over to yours, head following. His skin is pale and smudged with streaks and flecks of dirt and dust and sweat. His eyes are sunken into his face, cheekbones jagged and cutting out from hollowed cheeks. His lids are half-closed and he looks ready to fall asleep. There is no recognition, no cognizance, no discernment or awareness that he is looking at another person as his eye-line lands in the whereabouts of your ear.

"B?" He asks.  
Your shoulders slump as you sigh and say, resigned, "No. No, I'm not B."  
The curiosity burning in you is forge-fire bright and you can't help yourself from saying, "I'm Maud. Maud Emile Roulette."

You hold your breath and not from the smell. His eyes slide away from your ear and to the general vicinity of your forehead. You sit up straighter. His fingers twitch in yours and you squeeze them in what you hope is a comforting gesture. Your own hands are shaking just that slight bit that you don't think if he were in full possession of his faculties, he'd recognize it as such. He opens his mouth and you lean forward, eyes wide, expression welcoming and prompt him, tone encouraging and warm, "...Yes? J?... What is it?"

He opens his mouth and he says, "B."

You let gravity take you and fall against the seat, disappointment cooling your expectations and irritation infusing every syllable as you groan out, " _No_. I'm not B."

You wince as your elbow brushes against the seat and jolt back up as though electrocuted. You bring your elbow up and narrowly avoid braining Jason in the nose with it. Your sleeve falls away and your soulmark is two inches away from his irises. You can see him adjust, eyes actually moving to stare at the mark, like before in the alleyway.  
"See?" You say, excitement and hope burgeoning in your chest.  
There's no one out to get you in this bus. You whip round to inspect the other passengers, the paranoia rife as you beadily eye every one. Headphones is still on his phone, Nurse has her hand up to her chest and is fiddling with the necklace there, probably at a particularly tense or steamy part of the story. The old lady is staring out the window at the passing scenery, calm as a mannequin and Woodstock is deep in one of the many in his stack of newspapers.

You turn back to Jason and whisper his name, elbow still in his face. His gaze doesn't change. His posture doesn't shift. "J?" You ask him, worried for a moment that he's even stopped breathing, he's so still. You reach out your other hand to poke him for proof of life and jump off the seat when he asks, "B?"

"I'm not B!" You shout, partly in surprise and partly-- or largely-- in irritation. He barely blinks at this, gaze still trained somewhere to the left of your eyes and as far as you can tell, just breathes.

It's the most aggravating, depressing conversation you've ever had. You've finally met your soulmate and he can only say a single letter. That has nothing to do with you. You wrap your arms around the bag in your lap, hugging it to your chest, hand still holding Jason's. You don't let go of it for the rest of the bus ride to Aunt Agatha's apartment, resolutely cataloguing the various ailments you can see on Jason's person and trying very hard not to cry.

***

Great Aunt Agatha is...lucid...most days. She spends her time sitting in front of the television. You make meals for her and every so often, when you get home, you'll have found someone else has made a meal for you. So when you step over the threshold to find the television off and the whole place dark, you sigh, relieved that you won't have to explain anything.

"Come on," you say, turning so that you can see him, standing by the door where you'd let go of his hand.  
He doesn't react. You sigh, unsurprised and mainly chagrined with yourself for expecting anything different.  
You reach out a hand to take his. Gentle, gentle because the state of his hands gets your throat all clogged up if you focus too much on it. You swallow forcibly, knowing you're going to be looking at them and much more-all of it-very soon and won't have the luxury to let your squeamishness take the front seat.

You can't afford a hospital visit or the scrutiny it will bring and he's your soulmate and you're scared. Because he's utterly defenceless and you have no clue what you're doing. But you take his hand and pull him into the apartment. Because he's your soulmate and he needs help.

"Come on in." As long as you keep talking, you'll be fine. He seems to like the sound of your voice, anyway, and having something break that oppressive silence is keeping you from capsizing under the weight of what you're doing.  
"Bienvenue a la casa Agathe." You put on your worst melange of accents and spread out your other arm in a expansive gesture of presentation. The apartment is dark so you let go of his hand as you move towards the kitchen to turn on the light. It illuminates a small space with speckled, old walls of peeling paint and dingy, worn carpets.  
"It's not much, but it's home." You say, thinking bitterly of how embarrassed you'd been of your circumstances before and how grateful you are to have him here now.

You try not to be disappointed at his lack of reaction. Because logically, you shouldn't be. You've decided he's basically a zombie and zombies don't get surprised or pleased or impressed or disappointed. They're really only either hungry or looking for food. Speaking of...  
"You hungry?"  
This elicits a reaction and you feel a small frisson of alarm. Jason looks up at you and makes a noise. It's halfway between a groan and a grunt. He's not a zombie. You try to reassure yourself. Zombies don't bleed like him, don't have a pulse like him. Zombies don't have their name stitched across your elbow in black cursive like him.  
"Yeah?" You say, mainly to say something as you root around the fridge for anything edible and filling.

You find a tupperware of lasagne in the back by the fan. As you're rearranging things so you can take it out without dropping the rest of the things on the shelf to the floor, you decide to contact Bruce Wayne. Because, of course you do. It's the right, logical thing to do. He has just tragically, and if rumours are to be believed, traumatically, lost a son and here you have found him. By all accounts, he should be ecstatic to learn that his son is not buried six feet under but is, in fact, sitting in your kitchen and devouring a lasagne like he hasn't eaten in months. To be fair, he looks like he hasn't eaten well in months: cheeks hollowed out, clothes hanging off him and an overall complexion so pallid you have to remind yourself that zombies absolutely do not eat people food. They eat people _as_ food but they do not consume egregious amounts of tomato sauce and mozzarella with such single minded fervor. (one step forward, one step back. No matter how hard you continue to remind yourself that he's a person, you just cannot shake the impression of the undead that Jason's giving off.)

You decide, right then, that you will shake that impression. If he appears undead, then appearance you shall change. You march off to the bathroom, on a mission, rolling your sleeves up as you go. You end up rerouting to your bedroom to bring back towels and clothes instead and dump them on the counter of the bathroom before marching back to the kitchen.

The lasagne is gone and Jason is glaring at the empty tupperware like he can conjure more through sheer force of will.  
"Sorry, but that's all we've got." You tell him and he looks at you. It's the most cognizant you've seen him yet and you realize then that he must have been starving before.  
"Unless you want some granola bars..." you venture and he makes no reaction. Your gaze is drawn to the hand still holding the fork in a ham-fisted grip of steel. His fingers--  
"Alright. Y'know what." You lean forward to pluck the fork out of his hold and end up wrestling for it. He's surprisingly strong for a zombie and you wheedle with him as you struggle, "I'll give you granola bars but you have to be _clean_ to eat them."

_Getting_ clean is a process. You're surprised that Aunt Agatha isn't awake from the ruckus you kick up. Jason is lethargic and pliant after polishing off the lasagna when you pull him into the bathroom. He becomes agitated when you pull at his clothes and you have to take multiple moments to compose yourself when you see the extent of the damage. He has autopsy scars all across his torso and that alone has you heaving into the sink while he sits, mannequin still on the toilet.

You end up shaving off his hair because of the lice. He makes little reaction except when you first start shaving and you talk to him to keep him calm at first and then at him as the night progresses to keep yourself focused. You have a garbage bag full of refuse that you throw out immediately, plans for fumigating the bathroom at the back of your mind. You douse the whole room in bleach after you settle Jason into your bed and take the longest shower of your life, scrubbing so hard that your skin hurts after you dry off and get dressed.

You have a hard time falling asleep that night. Jason is a warm weight by your side, heavy and immovable as a stone. You don't know how long you lay there and just cry, more or less silently.

And are awoken by a sharp jab to your already bruised side.

Jason's whole face is twisted in an expression of such anguish that you reach out to wake him up without a second thought. A hand on his shoulder and a consistent shake has him spring-boarding upright with wild eyes and an incomprehensible shout.

"Jason! _Jason_ , it's _okay_!" You hiss at him, mindful of the time, the thin walls and Great-Aunt Agatha on the other side of them. He looks around slowly, eyes open but completely glazed over. You don't think he's taking in what's going on beyond the fact that he's no longer on the streets. His shoulders drop and his torso follows until he's laying down again and the only thing that comes out of his mouth is a plaintive question. The same as before. The only thing he seems capable of saying.

"B?" He asks. Cries really. And it sets your heart breaking because you're not B and you don't know how to get to B.

"Not B," you whisper, putting a hand on his arm for reassurance. "It's Maud, remember?"

He jerks slightly when you touch him and you let go quickly, fingers curling into a fist that you tuck under your chin.  
"It's okay," you tell him, trying again. "We're at my house and you're safe. It's okay."  
You don't know if he understands completely. He's been largely impervious to any conversation starters, questions, accusations, appeals or demands for a response or reaction of any kind. You can still hear him quietly whimpering but at least he's no longer asking for Bruce.

"It's me, Maud. Emile. Roulette," you whisper. "And you're Jason. Peter. Todd." You're hoping this will work like in the alley, get him to focus on the here and now so you can both go back to sleep. He recognizes his name, at least, and turns to look at you. You pull your elbow up so it's closer to his face and pull your shirt sleeve down so he can see your mark. "Jason Peter Todd, see?" You whisper, "That's you."

You point to your elbow and he looks at it. There's a flicker of some of the same recognition that you'd seen earlier but none of the epiphany of that moment. He blinks slowly, stops whimpering as you continue, slow as the blink, "Remember? We found each other in the alleyway..."

You recount the events of the evening, in a sing song cadence, like telling a story to a child and can see him relaxing incrementally, inchmeal pace, until he's breathing deeply, sound asleep. You lay there and stare at the ceiling for what feels like ages before you join him in slumber. It feels like it's only been seconds before you're awakened by a sharp jab to your already sore legs.

Jason's whole face is twisted in an expression of such anguish that you reach out to wake him up without a second thought. A hand on his shoulder and a consistent shake has him spring-boarding upright with wild eyes and an incomprehensible shout.

"Jason! _Jason_ , it's _okay_!" You hiss at him, mindful of the time, the thin walls and Great-Aunt Agatha on the other side of them. He looks around slowly, eyes open but completely glazed over. You don't think he's taking in what's going on beyond the fact that he's no longer on the streets. His shoulders drop and his torso follows until he's laying down again and the only thing that comes out of his mouth is a plaintive question. The same as before. The only thing he seems capable of saying.

"B?" He cries. And it sets your heart breaking all over again because you're not B and you don't know how to get to B.

"Not B," you whisper, putting a hand on his arm for reassurance. "It's Maud, remember?"

He twitches slightly when you rub his arm before letting go, fingers curling into a fist that you tuck under your chin.  
"It's okay," you tell him, trying again. "We're at my house and you're safe. It's okay."  
You don't know if he understands completely. He's been largely impervious to any conversation starters, questions, accusations, appeals or demands for a response or reaction of any kind. You can still hear him quietly whimpering but at least he's no longer asking for Bruce.

"It's me, Maud. Emile. Roulette," you whisper. "And you're Jason. Peter. Todd." You're hoping this will work like earlier, get him to focus on the here and now so you can both go back to sleep. He recognizes his name, at least, by the way his eyes focus on your face. You pull your elbow up so it's closer to his range of vision and pull your shirt sleeve down so he can see your mark. "Jason Peter Todd, see?" You whisper, "That's you."

There's a flicker of recognition and he blinks slowly, the whimpers stopping as you continue explaining, "Remember? We found each other in the alleyway..."

You recount the events of the evening, in a sing song cadence, like telling a story to a child and can see him relaxing incrementally, inchmeal pace, until he's breathing deeply, sound asleep. You lay there and stare at the ceiling for what feels like ages before you join him in slumber. It feels like it's only been seconds before you're awakened by a sharp jab to your bruised elbow...

***

Waking up is goddamn awful. You barely slept all night. And it feels like every single part of your body aches from your toenails to your eyebrows. Your elbow's the worst: swollen and tender to the touch and painful to move. Jason's sleeping peacefully for once. A not insignificant amount of resentment settles in your gut as you look past him to the clock on your nightstand. It's seven. AM.

Aunt Agatha's usually up by seven. Since you have to take the bus to school, you're usually out the door by then with breakfast on the table, waiting for her. Today she's sitting on the couch when you emerge from your bedroom. The TV clicks on as you shuffle off to the bathroom in search of anything to dull the pain.

You swallow one ibuprofen dry and then turn on the tap to gulp some water when it feels stuck in your throat. Your head still feels like it's stuffed with cotton so you pop another one and start gulping water like a parched salmon. Looking in the bathroom mirror leaves you dismayed. You have class in an hour and only a few minutes to get ready. You look like you'll need the full hour. The bags under your eyes are a luggage set. The spot on your jaw where Jason must have struck you has settled into a nicely livid bruise. Your arms and torso fare no better.

You have to sneak into Aunt Agatha's room after the quickest shower possible to use some of her make up because your jaw looks a picture. Her room is a relic to another time. Aunt Agatha is not Gotham born nor Gotham bred. Her room is filled with intricately carved oak furniture brought from her old house in upstate New York. It's a stark contrast to the dilapidated state of the apartment.

You slide open the top drawer of the delicate vanity wedged into the corner and fumble with the powders and compacts that are meticulously arranged. You feel like you're smearing on paint. It's glaringly obvious you're wearing make up despite how much you try to smudge it out and in. You drop the brush when you hear a scream from the living room. Leaving disarray in your wake, you rush out, slamming the door open.

Jason is standing in the middle of the living room, right in front of the television, staring at the screen where Bruce Wayne's picture is plastered in hazy technicolor. Aunt Agatha is braced against the couch cushions with her cane in front of her, held aloft like a sword.

"Aunt Agatha!" You shout and Aunt Agatha screams in response before twisting and looking at you.  
She screams again and waves her cane in the general direction of Jason who's staring at the TV like it's the rapture.  
"It's okay!" You shout.

Aunt Agatha makes a third, half-hearted scream before lowering her cane, chest heaving.  
"Maud," She gasps, "Maud, what's going on?"  
She's paler than when the heating kicked off in the middle of winter. You sigh. "This is my soulmate, Aunt Agatha."  
"Your soulmate?!" She exclaims, looking at Jason with new eyes.  
"Yes. My soulmate. Jason."

You wait for any reaction. From either of them. Aunt Agatha just looks at him and Jason cannot look away from the screen. The morning show's now showcasing pictures of Bruce Wayne caught en flagrante leaving several nightclubs with a series of ''it'' girls on his arm.  
" _Well_!" Agatha says, with such finality it's as though something's been decided. Ever the pragmatist, she begins her interrogation, "Why is he wearing your clothes?"  
"Because--"  
"And why hasn't he introduced himself?"  
"Because--"  
"Very rude." Aunt Agatha sniffs and addresses Jason directly, "Well?... Young man, where are your manners?"

"Aunt Agatha..." you don't know how to approach the topic, let alone say it, but Agatha won't leave him alone if you don't establish boundaries now. "Aunt Agatha, he's...not all there...right now."

"What do you mean?" Aunt Agatha asks sharply.  
"I mean, mentally...I don't know. I...I found him on the street--"  
"Ah." Aunt Agatha's expression hardens and she waves you away. "Breakfast, darling. Go on." That last bit is said with enough force that you go, relieved and annoyed in equal measure that she's being so agreeable about the whole situation.

You're going to be very, _very_ late for school at this point but you can't leave Aunt Agatha without breakfast and you can't leave Jason without knowing he'll stay. Even though all evidence suggests that he'll continue to follow wherever he's led, you have to be sure. How do you tell someone that your soulmate is presumed dead? Might even possibly have actually been dead? You're still attempting to reconcile the contradiction of a living body and a recorded death in your own head but you're too tired to parse it out properly now.

Aunt Agatha seems to be doing miles better than you what with having this sprung upon her without any warning. She's handling it surprisingly well, to the point of suspicion. You watch from the stove, neck craned, as Agatha pulls Jason down to sit beside her on the couch. Jason sits. You don't know why you're surprised that he does. You plate up the porridge and bring it with spoons to the coffee table in front of the couch.

"What are you doing?" Aunt Agatha snaps peevishly as you set the bowls in front of her.  
"It's breakfast, Aunt Agatha...?" You venture, sarcasm seeping through even though you try to remain neutral.  
"You're late for school, my girl." She reprimands primly and your mouth drops open at the comment. You've just introduced your semi-comatose soulmate whom you've admitted to finding on the street and your Aunt's taking you to task for school attendance.  
"Off with you." She commands and you stare at her, mouth gaping. She raises her eyebrows imperiously, making a shooing motion with one hand, "Go on." You give her one last lingering, uncertain look and she sighs heavily through flared nostrils before saying, as soothing as Aunt Agatha's ever been, "I'll look after this one." She pats Jason's arm briskly before giving you a beady-eyed stare that you're well acquainted with and intoning, "Now... _Go_."

You go. As directed. On autopilot, you grab your bag from where you'd dumped it by the entrance, shove your shoes on without much care and snag a jacket as you hunt for your keys. You find them stuffed in the pocket of the very jacket in your hands.

"And you'd better have my vanity sorted when you get back!" is your parting farewell from Agatha as you lock the door behind you, calling out a "Bye, Jason!" just before you close it. You hold the door open for a split-second longer, a part of yourself you're unwilling to acknowledge, hopelessly hopeful for some kind of response even though the rational part of you knows you won't be getting any. You shut the door to the sound of morning television.

**Author's Note:**

> this was something i turned to, to offset school stress and i actually had a lot of fun writing it. like i said: self-indulgent af.


End file.
